Worth Fighting For
by Sir Miles
Summary: Even the greatest of heroes need help sometimes. To Daxter's surprise, this time the help came from a most unlikely place. (Jak II. Rated T for minor violence.)


Jak could feel the rage building up, calling to the dark eco inside him. Even had he wanted to stop it, he could not have done so: his emotions were carried on a tide of power that was out of his control. If the guards running toward him had any idea he was in danger of turning into that "monster," they gave no sign. The afternoon sunlight glinted off of their shiny red armor and their standard issue blasters. A few paused to fire at Jak while the others kept running, intent on capturing him dead or alive.

"Behind you, Jak!" Daxter tugged on Jak's ear to get him to turn. A guard had slipped through Jak's hail of blaster shots. With a shot that was probably more luck than skill, he pegged Jak in the arm. Quicker than thought, Jak lashed out with a spinning kick that leveled the guard. But more were already running in behind him, calling for further backup all the while.

Daxter held onto Jak's shoulder guard, his furry face worried. "They're coming too fast!" The duo had been in brutal situations before, but this one was worse. Maybe the Baron had finally realized just how much of a threat Jak posed. Maybe he had finally decided to be done with his "failed experiment."

Jak dropped to a crouch, letting a trio of guards get close. Then, just as they paused to fire, he leapt up, punching rapidly before switching to a quick spin-fire, a wastelander move he had been putting to good use ever since he had learned it. Guards fell all around him, crying out their last words. Jak ignored them. Fighting for one's life left little time for sympathy.

For the same reason, Jak hardly noticed the civilians who were running and shouting around him. In this war, they were merely background noise. If they didn't have the sense to take care of themselves . . . Well, Jak wasn't going to be the one to do it. He had a hard enough time taking care of Daxter and himself.

Another guard shot at him, knocking him back towards the wall. "Jak, I think we're surrounded!" Daxter's quick eyes darted around the scene, sizing up what could only be described as a "desperate situation." They were in the slums, caught at a crossroad of streets. Krimzon Guards ran in from all sides, a seemingly endless supply. Down the road to the right, Jak could make out the cover of a gun turret; there would be no escape that way, even if they could get past the guards.

"Ouch!" A stray shot (no doubt intended to kill Jak) had hit Daxter in the leg. His best friend crouched on all fours, trying to become a smaller target. Pain mixed with stubbornness on his face: he would not abandon Jak, even at a time like this.

His expression turning from fierce anger to a deeper kind of rage, Jak threw himself at the nearest guards. Punching, kicking, shooting—and all the while the ottsel on his shoulder fighting with him. But the guards just kept coming, on foot and in the air. And though their shots often missed, there were far too many of them for luck to be entirely on Jak's side. He felt himself weakening, tiring, falling deeper and deeper into the pain.

Somewhere deep inside, beyond the noise and mayhem that assailed his ears and body, he felt the anger growing. _He_ was there, feeding on the dark eco and the adrenaline of battle. And the rage. Growing and growing with every hit, every jolt of pain. The guards had no idea. But Daxter, feeling the shift in his friend like a cold wind off of Snowy Mountain, crouched lower on his shoulder pad, his eyes filled with a mixture of anticipation and dread. "Jak . . ."

But Jak was too far removed to hear him. At some point he had lost control, like sinking into unconsciousness. Only he could still see, still hear. But his control of his senses was being swept away on that tide of dark energy. It was an all-too familiar rush, a surge that made him feel as if he had been turned inside out all at once. He would have screamed if he could, but he was no longer in control. And all that came out was a deep, rumbling roar.

The guards closest to him paused, fright momentarily overcoming their training. They had all heard about him, of course, but few had actually seen him. It. The monster.

Dark Jak.

Daxter bared his teeth at the guards, trying to match his friend's fierceness. He did not bother shouting warnings for Jak anymore: he knew his friend would pay no heed. This wasn't Jak, it was an eco-infused creation intent only on killing. Daxter would not call him a monster; that would be calling Jak a monster. And Daxter would not think of him that way. But he knew that Dark Jak was not quite his friend. He knew that inside _this_ Jak's head there was only a lust for destruction and victory. But dark eco or not, Daxter knew where his place was.

The guards nearest Jak recovered their senses. "Get him!" one shouted, lifting his weapon once more. Dark Jak's claws ripped through him before he had a chance to fire. The guard behind him met a similar fate, and the one beyond that. Dark Jak was a whirlwind of destruction, spinning and slashing in a cloud of dark eco. But Daxter could see that this fight was still too much, even for _him_. There were too many guards, too many weapons.

And yet . . . one by one they were disappearing. Dark Jak was everywhere, and he never missed a kill. Daxter's eyes widened as he counted the enemies left: twenty, seventeen, thirteen, ten . . . Sometimes the guards would manage a hit; but Dark Jak kept going, as if he didn't even feel the pain. Sometimes Daxter wondered if Dark Jak felt anything but rage.

Six enemies left—no, four. Two of them were running away! "I think we're gonna make it through this, buddy!" Daxter exclaimed, even though he knew Dark Jak wasn't listening. The dark eco fed the rage, and it would not dissipate until the battle was over. Well, soon enough it would be—

"_Aargh!"_

An animalistic roar split the air, and Daxter felt the shoulder he was on jerk suddenly. Jerking his attention back to his friend, Daxter's eyes widened. A large wound in Jak's side that had not been there before was just beginning to ooze blood. _That looks bad._ But he hardly had a chance to look at it properly because Dark Jak was racing across the street, his legs pounding the uneven pavement. And suddenly Daxter realized: the gun turret. All the while the guards had been slowly leading Dark Jak closer to the turret. And now it was active.

"Jak, get back!" Guards were one thing, even in droves; the turrets were something else. Looking behind them, Daxter say a trail of blood spots on the light ground. Worse, he felt Dark Jak slowing down. It was an involuntary shift; his friend was weakening. But the rage forced Dark Jak to go after the instrument of attack. And now the remaining guards were closing in again. Daxter heard one of them giving directions over his communicator. Reinforcements.

"Oh, boy." Daxter didn't think; he simply acted. With the ease of long practice, Jak's gun was in his hand. Jerking around to face backward, he trained the blaster on the approaching guards. His heightened battle senses were warning him that there was a gun turret behind him, but he ignored them. Jak would take care of that threat. It was up to him to guard Jak's back.

A moment felt like a year as Daxter took aim and fired. He felt the trigger click back. And then he was moving, spinning, whirling, his perch sliding beneath him unexpectedly. His feet sought to keep their purchase even as his top half overbalanced. He grabbed for the gun, and he heard the weapon fire several more times.

Then he was flat on his back on the ground, the blaster clattering down next to him. Dark Jak loomed above, settling his feet back on the ground. In a flash, Daxter knew what had happened: just as he had fired, Dark Jak had kicked. For a moment, Daxter had been a true wastelander.

He lifted his head, glancing around. The guards were defeated, as was the gun turret. And miraculously, they were both still alive. He sat up, feeling a great rush of relief. "Well, buddy, it looks like you actually did it . . ."

Slowly, Dark Jak collapsed to the ground.

"Whoa, hey!" Daxter was up in a flash, his own hurts forgotten. Worry replaced relief as he saw that his friend was unconscious—and still bleeding heavily. The fight _had _been too much. True, Jak had won, but now he was going to die out here in the street. Daxter glanced around frantically. Could he get Jak on a zoomer and take him to Torn's place? It was a nearly impossible shot, but what else could he do? "C'mon, Jak, wake up!" He patted his friend's cheek, but there was no response. And now something else struck Daxter.

Jak wasn't changing back. The air around him was charged with eco energy. Daxter could feel it oozing out of Dark Jak, much like the widening blood stain on his tunic.

This was bad. Jak had never done this before, never stayed Dark Jak after the battle was over. Had he lost control completely? Was Jak gone for good? Daxter's ears slumped. "Buddy?" he whispered. There was no response.

Sirens in the distance jerked Daxter out of his fearful thoughts. "Uh oh." He remembered the two guards who had fled. It looked like the reinforcements were finally on their way. The street was deserted now, but it would only be moments before they were swarming with the Baron's men once more. And Daxter knew that there was no way they would survive.

"Okay, big guy, I've got to get you out of here!" Getting a firm grip on Dark Jak's hair, Daxter gritted his teeth and _pulled_.

Nothing happened.

Daxter pulled again, trying with all his strength and will. But it was no use; he could not move his friend an inch. The sirens were growing closer, echoing off the walls of the buildings. They were coming from multiple directions! In a moment they would be surrounded. And there was nothing that Daxter could do.

"It's okay, buddy." He stepped close to Dark Jak as if his presence alone could protect his unconscious friend. "I'm here for you."

A movement out of the corner of his eye made Daxter jerk around. His hands automatically tried to tighten on the gun he no longer held; he and Jak had been through the same missions, and the ottsel shared his friend's quick reflexes. But there was no red armor in sight yet. Instead, Daxter saw a pair of civilians leaning out of a doorway. Knowing that to the civilians Dark Jak was little better—or perhaps even worse—than the Metalheads, he faced them warily. "Keep back!" They were not likely to try to kill Dark Jak; they lacked the fighter drive. But they might tie him up until the guards got there. "Just leave him alone!" Without taking his eyes off of the civilians, Daxter felt around for Jak's weapon.

The pair of civilians stepped out of the doorway cautiously. One man was tall and lean, with blond hair, the other rotund and dark. The two glanced at the monster in the road then at the small orange rat who, against all reason, had shouted at them. Then they looked up and down the street, noting the sirens. Finally, they looked at each other. The lean man nodded, and the two stepped quickly into the street.

Daxter stumbled, getting nervous. They were coming to get Jak! Sparing a glance, he saw that the gun was on the other side of his friend's body. He scrambled up and over the blue tunic, diving for the weapon.

But the rotund man was on him before he could reach the ground. _I didn't even know civilians could move that fast!_ He squirmed in the man's firm grip; he was caught by the nape of his neck. If he could just—

"Hold still. We're not here to hurt you."

Daxter blinked at the low voice, going limp. It was the lean man who had spoken. He was watching Daxter with cool, blue eyes that were filled with worry . . . and a hint of understanding. For a moment, the ottsel almost felt as if the man had been talking to him, as if he actually thought Daxter understood. Like Jak did.

"Put him on my shoulder, Putt." Daxter suddenly found himself being deposited on the lean man's shoulder. Startled, he was about to jump down—or maybe scratch the man's eyes out—when he heard the next words. "Now grab his legs. We've to to get him inside before the guards come back."

_What?_ That almost sounded as if they were trying to help . . .

Quickly the two men lifted Dark Jak between them. Daxter saw the lean man shift his friend's body so his claws were well out of the way. Then, moving as quickly as they could, they carried him toward the house they had come out of. Daxter, his emotions running wild between fear and confusion, held perfectly still on his perch.

Inside, the house was small and dark. A little light broke through the dingy windows to pick out the room's few features: a table, a couch, a couple pictures on the wall, and a doorway leading deeper into the gloom. In the slums, being inside wasn't much better than being outside.

"Put him on the couch." The two men set Dark Jak down on the couch. Immediately Daxter leapt to his friend's chest and took up a fighting stance. If they tried _anything_ . . .

"Oh, the gun!" This time it was Putt who spoke. He looked at the lean man. "The guards will see it, Drake."

The lean man—Drake—nodded. At that, Putt raced back through the door, his speed belying his size. The sound of the sirens came through the open door, loud and dangerous. Daxter could also hear the shouts of the guards now, calling commands and encouragement to each other. He glanced up at Drake, but the man had his eyes glued to the door, worry evident on his face. There came the sound of running, then a trio of shots being fired—and then Putt was back, huffing and puffing as he slammed the door and leaned against it. Jak's weapon was nestled carefully in the crook of his arm.

"It's . . . ugly out there," he said, trying to catch his breath. "They're looking for the monster."

Daxter's ears flattened, and he crouched low. So these men were after Jak after all. Well, he wasn't going to let them hurt his friend! A growl began in his throat, deep and sinister.

The noise caught Drake's attention. He regarded the ottsel with a critical eye. "Bring the gun, Putt." When the larger man handed it to him, Drake hefted it for a second, then pointed it at Daxter. The ottsel, afraid but undaunted, continued to growl. Drake gave a small laugh. "Here. I know you know how to use it."

And suddenly Daxter realized that the man was handing him the butt of the gun, not pointing the barrel at him. He stared for a moment longer, then stood up straight. Carefully, he reached out to take the weapon, hoisting it up onto his shoulder. Drake merely watched him with that unusual gaze, seemingly unconcerned for his own life. After what seemed like an eternity, Daxter lowered the weapon.

"Good choice." There was a faint quirk to Drake's lips. "Now, if you'll stand aside, we can see to your friend." Putt moved forward to stand beside Drake, holding a small medical kit. Both men were watching Daxter with a kind of expectancy that shook him more than the Krimzon Guard attack had. Before he knew he had made a decision, Daxter climbed off of Dark Jak's chest to perch on the back of the couch.

This time it was Putt who spoke. "Thank you." With an efficiency that spoke of long practice, he knelt next to the couch and quickly began pulling things out of the medical bag. Drake stood to the side, watching him. Daxter, in turn, watched them both.

What were they doing? No, that was the wrong question: it was clear that, for some reason Daxter couldn't fathom, they were trying to help Jak. The sirens outside were muted by the house's walls, but the ottsel could tell there was still a commotion going on. But no one came to burst through the door to kill them. And it was now becoming clear that these two civilians were not going to turn them in to the guards. The real question was, _why_ were they helping? Daxter knew what they looked like: an oversized, furry rat wearing goggles . . . and a monster. If Daxter hadn't known Jak, the _real_ Jak, he might have felt the same way the people of Haven City did, might have run in terror when he saw Dark Jak rampaging through the streets. Then why . . . ?

He looked toward Drake. The lean man was holding a stack of bandages for Putt, who was busy pouring some clear liquid onto a clean rag. Feeling Daxter's eyes on him, Drake raised a questioning eyebrow at the ottsel.

It was probably too late to pretend that he couldn't talk. He _had _yelled at them in the street, after all. Taking a deep breath, Daxter began, "Why are you—?"

His question was interrupted by a roar of pain. Dark Jak was awake and thrashing on the low couch. Putt had one arm pressed against Dark Jak's shoulder, trying to hold him down. Drake bravely jumped in to help his friend; he sat on Dark Jak's legs. "He woke up when I tried to clean him up!" Putt explained. "This stuff stings a bit!" He nodded at the rag in his hand, then pulled it back as Dark Jak tried to rip it with his free hand. Putt called to Daxter, "Pin his other arm!"

Daxter was encouraged to see his friend awake, even if he were enraged. Jumping down from the back of the couch, he wrapped his arms and legs about his friend's arm, trying to hold him down. It didn't do much. But after a moment, Dark Jak seemed to calm slightly. The black orbs turned toward the ottsel, and suddenly there was recognition in them. " . . . Dax?"

Relief rushed through Daxter, pushing back some of his tension. "I'm here, buddy. I'll take care of you."

There came the faintest of nods, and the dark eyes slid closed. At the same time, the eco energy dissipated, leaving a lighter feeling in the air. Jak was back to his usual self, unconscious and calm. Daxter let go of Jak's arm and stood beside it.

"That's better." Putt straightened and went back to treating Jak's wounds.

Drake stood up and moved to one of the windows, looking out from the side. After a minute he nodded. "They didn't hear." He came back to the couch. "And it looks like they're about ready to give up the chase. We can probably move him soon. How's it coming?"

Putt gestured for a bandage, and Drake gave him one. "He'll live, I think. So long as he gets out of here."

"Hey!" Daxter's voice was sharp. "Don't think I'll let you turn Jak in!"

Drake fixed him with his eyes. "We won't. We'll take you to the Underground."

The ottsel's eyes widened in surprise. How did they know about the Underground? And why would they take Jak there? And why, by the Precursors, were they helping Jak in the first place?!

It was as if his thoughts had burst from his mind to hang in the open air. "We know you work for the Underground. Everyone does." The faint smile was back on Drake's lips. "Only the Underground gets into trouble like you two do."

Putt paused to ready another bandage. "We don't want any trouble," he said quietly, "but we're not stupid, either." Now he looked at Daxter. "You two are all over the city, always making a rumble. The Baron isn't the only one who notices." He shrugged. "Everybody in the slums knows about you." He jerked his round face toward the unconscious Jak. "And him."

"But . . ." Daxter had to pause. This was too much to comprehend at once. Were they saying that the citizens of Haven City, the ones who seemed completely oblivious to the war around them, the people who could do nothing more than run and scream in terror, were actually paying _attention_? But if they knew about Jak—and clearly they did, because they had seen _him—_then why weren't they running in terror? "Why are you helping us?"

It was Drake's turn to look at Jak. "The Baron says he's a monster. And I guess we've seen it." Putt nodded. "But," he shrugged and grinned at the ottsel, "he seems to be trying to help the city. So that's good enough for us."

Daxter was staring. Was it possible that these people actually realized Jak was on their side? "But what about the Baron?"

Putt answered, a scowl in his voice. "He's in it for his war, not for us."

"This kid may be a monster, but at least he's fighting for other people."

Daxter looked from Drake, leaning against the couch with a small pile of bandages in his hand, to Putt, wrapping up Jak's injuries. Who were they, really? Just two random civilians, people Jak and Daxter hadn't paid much attention to before. They weren't a threat, so they weren't important. Jak might have even "borrowed" on of their zoomers on occasion. But when had he ever given them more than a passing glance? And yet, here they were, helping when it endangered their own lives. They weren't part of the Underground, but they were fighting in their own way. Perhaps he and Jak had misjudged them.

"He's ready; let's go." Putt pushed himself to his feet, wiping his hands on a rag. "The zoomer's in the back. I'll keep watch on the front."

Drake nodded, and the two men moved to lift Jak from the couch. To Daxter, Drake said, "I'll drop you off at the nearest Underground house."

Daxter's mind was still reeling. He climbed onto Jak's chest to ride along. "But—_why?_"

The lean man grunted and shifted Jak's legs higher as he walked. Then he looked at Daxter. "This place and its people are worth fighting for."

Daxter was quiet, thinking about those words, as Drake drove him and Jak to a safe house. Underground members helped Jak inside, and Drake drove off. The ottsel stared down the road after him for a long time, wondering if he would ever see the kindly duo again. Wondering if he would recognize them if they did cross paths. Wondering what Jak would have though of all of this.

It was a full day before Jak awoke again. Daxter hovered over him, worry in the ottsel's eyes. But Jak had a small smile for him. "Hey, Dax. I feel terrible."

"Nice to see you, too, buddy." And suddenly everything was better. Jak would pull through. They would keep fighting.

But Jak, despite his overall weariness and the pain that still lingered, noticed something strange in his friend. He tried to think back to the last thing he remembered, but everything was hazy. That usually happened when he turned Dark Jak. He had been fighting Krimzon Guards, he knew, but that was about it. "Is everything all right, Dax?"

The ottsel looked thoughtful for a long moment. "I was just thinking," he began finally. "I mean, we're fighting to stop the Baron, right?" He glanced sidelong at Jak, seeing the familiar hatred. Jak wondered what Daxter was trying to get at. Then Daxter spoke again, his voice unusually determined. "But I was thinking . . . maybe we could help the people of Haven City, too."

Jak considered his friend's words. His foremost concern was taking care of himself and Daxter, along with his friends. But somewhere during the course of this war he had gotten more involved, he realized. This was no longer just about revenge. This was about something a little bigger.

"Maybe you're right." He smiled faintly at Daxter, wondering just when he had come to believe that. "Maybe this place is worth fighting for."

Daxter nodded. Stepping over his shoulder, the ottsel curled up on the bed next to his friend's head. Feeling the conversation finished, Jak relaxed once more, content to rest for awhile. His eyes were closing as he caught Daxter's final words.

"And its people."


End file.
